


The Life and Legend of Norvo Tigan, Prison Painter

by workaholicSlacker



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Rules of Acquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/workaholicSlacker/pseuds/workaholicSlacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 'Prodigal Daughter.'  Ezri's brother Norvo continues to paint in prison, and his work catches the eye of a number of other inmates, including a Ferengi with some big ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Zealand Penitentiary Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know whether to call this a fix-it fic, but I kind of fell in love with Norvo after watching that episode, and really wanted to continue his story. I'm not sure if the character has any other fans at all, but, dammit, I'm gonna do this thing, Chapters will be short--roughly each scene is its own chapter--so that I can actually post them at a reasonable pace.

Ezri had sent Norvo brushes, paint, and canvas. The guards told him the request was sent as soon as she knew where they’d stick him. Good old Zee. She’d put in some work on the brushes. The powers that be had decided that regular brushes could be used as shivs, so she had people on the station cobble together some handles that went floppy, by way of an altered molecular structure, any time they were moved too quickly in any one direction. So he couldn’t furiously splatter-paint like a proper tortured artist. Oh well.

He’d been painting almost as a form of observation. Paint the cell, paint the other rooms, paint the inmates that didn’t look like they’d start a fight. He’d painted his surroundings in a dozen different styles now. Sometimes he’d get real, proper work done. But mostly just…journal paintings, so to speak. Maybe by the time he was out 

Conditions weren’t so bad. For a murderer, they seemed to think he had some capacity for rehabilitation, so they sent him to a lower-security facility than most people who’d killed someone with their bare hands. They thought the painting was therapeutic. If they meant it kept him out of a deep, deep hole, they’d be right.

So far he’d been without a cellmate. That was going to change within a matter of minutes, though. They were processing the new inmate at the moment. Norvo was going to have to make a friend. How horrifying. Ah, there were the guards now.

They were bringing in a middle-aged Ferengi. This would be interesting.

“Pleased to meet you, future cellmate,” the Ferengi extended a hand for Norvo to shake, “I am Yag, temporarily embarrassed pharmaceuticals entrepreneur. Yourself?”

“Norvo, mediocre painter.”

“Now, son, you don’t announce mediocrity when you first meet someone. At least try and sucker them into thinking you’re great.”

“You called yourself a pharmaceuticals entrepreneur.”

“Yes, they caught me on conspiracy to transport certain…extralegal goods.”

“Narcotics.”

“Oh, and stimulants, and the odd hallucinogen. I had a very diverse line of products. What did you do?”

“Would you believe I killed someone?”

Yag’s eyes widened. “Now why would a fresh-faced young man like yourself do that?”

“My family owed her money we didn’t have. I didn’t plan to kill her. It just seemed so easy.”

“Well, hew-mon…”

“I’m a Trill, Yag. See the spots?”

“Whatever. No one ever taught you the rules of acquisition. Rule 108: A dead body is a bad investment.” He looked at the paintings strewn around the cell. “You know, as good as those are, you’re going to have to give your new bunkmate a little space.”

“You think they’re good? I thought they didn’t have enough superfluous precious stones for the Ferengi aesthetic.”

“Hey, not all of us are philistines.” He tapped the side of his head. “Canok root. Expands your mind.”

Great. Norvo’s biggest fan was a Ferengi who credited his taste to drugs. “You know,” he said, “The academy rejected my work. They told me, in so many words, that I just wasn’t good enough yet. I’d say I was a more successful murderer than painter.”

“Really? Because from what I see, when you paint, you play with style in the way only a student with real talent can manage, and when you murder, you get caught and thrown in prison. I’d say you were a good young painter and a lousy murderer.” He climbed up to the top bunk. "Now, mister painter, let a tired old man sleep through his first day in jail. And no painting me while I sleep."


	2. Discovered!

“Hey, painter!” The shout came from across the cafeteria. Norvo considered just walking past. Back with his family, any voice that wasn’t Zee’s was bad news. But this wasn’t his abusive family, no, this was just prison. He walked in the direction of the voice.

The speaker was a wiry-looking human, with curly brown hair, sharp features, some no doubt consciously rugged stubble, and the grin of a man who wanted something. “You seem like a man who likes dessert,” he said.

“Does this make me special?”

“Not really, but you like dessert _and_ you make art. Hence, I have a proposition for you.”

“Well, you’re plenty handsome, but I barely know you.”

“Oh, I like you. No, see, I have an idea for a tattoo, and I was wondering if you could give me a sketch. Now, to fairly compensate you for your work, I’d give you a portion of my replicator ration. See, my behavior is immaculate, so they give me cake. Just like grandparents. And if you help me, you get to share in my junk food wealth.”

The thing about prison tattoos was that they were such a tradition that the Federation could do nothing to stop inmates from getting them. The best solution, they decided, was to allot the prison one tattoo gun, rather than let the prisoners cobble together old-style ones (that is, ones with actual needles). An inmate with a good disciplinary record could, under supervision, tattoo another inmate with that gun.

“You know, that’s not really my aesthetic. What do you want, anyway? Something tacky to make you seem tough?”

“You wound me, Tigan. No skulls or Orion slave girls. No. I want a sleeping targ, curled up on itself. My father used to make up these stories about talking animals. He was no author, but I was a kid. Anyhow, my favorite character was this ornery targ named Tomasso. I figure it’s more tasteful than ‘Dad’ in big gothic letters.”

“Alright, you want my first attempt at a tattoo design on your skin, I won’t stop you.”

“Good man.” He clapped Norvo on the shoulder. Norvo flinched. He took his arm away. “No touching. Got it. Name’s Maximillian. Max is acceptable if you like brevity. Care to meet the guys?”

Norvo did not like charismatic people. Charismatic people rolled all over your comfort zone. They rolled all over your willpower. They were tolerable if he was drunk, hell, he was one of them if he was drunk. But Max was a Charsmatic Person, and sure enough Norvo was going to get suckered into his little circle. But hey, free snacks.

“Alright.” He gestured to a table with a human, a Bajoran, and a Klingon. “This is Q’otok of the house of Lakh, this is Tezel Milar, and that’s Ignacio. Just Ignacio.” He turned to Q’otok. “Move over, sweet pants, the new kid needs a place to sit.” He turned, conspiratorially, to Norvo, “We’re not an item, he just tried to smuggle some candy in with him when he got here, and it ended up melting into his pockets. Hence, sweet pants. Don’t you call him that, though. Honor.”

Maybe they weren’t an item, but for a Klingon to take that kind of talk meant they had some kind of something. Norvo sat. “So you’re the painter?” asked Milar.

“That’s me. The only painter currently in existence.”

Q’otok did something with his mouth that could have been a smile or a scowl. “Maximillian, you found another talker. Did you finally get tired of your own voice?”

“Never, my friend, never,” said Max, “but even the best vintage of bloodwine is just one vintage.”

“You panderer,” said Ignacio, “You don’t even like bloodwine.”

“You’ve caught me.” Max put a melodramatic hand across his heart. “I have invoked Klingon cultural artifacts in a naked effort to make myself relatable to my good friend Q’otok here. I am truly the most weaselly inmate in all of New Zealand. You may each take a carrot of mine; that is my penance.”

The meal continued in that general vein. Norvo bantered along to keep himself afloat, but he was not comfortable here. This was how the men his brother Janel entertained for business were—boisterous for each other’s benefit, wielding masculine camaraderie as a sort of currency. And Max was the man with the biggest bank account in this scenario.

Norvo’d make him the tattoo. Currying favor with Max seemed like a good way of staying safe. And that’s what Norvo did. Stay safe in hostile environments. If growing up a Tigan were to have a silver lining, he supposed that being prepared for prison social politics was as appropriate as any. If Norvo’s life was a joke, it had the decency of being a clever one.


	3. Commerce

Norvo woke up from another dream with the bloody rock in his hand. He didn’t feel evil. Or guilty. He felt stupid. He felt like the one thing he did that wasn’t gutless, the one thing he did for his family, was so monumentally self-sabotaging that he must have been trying to ruin his life. Maybe he had been. And for those people, too. Ezri did the right thing. She got out. Here, what did he have? Thirty years of the Maxes and Yags of the galaxy. Speaking of which. Yag was already up. And pacing.

“Good, you’re up,” he said, still pacing furiously, “Come on over here.” Norvo did. “I just learned something that might, mind you I said might, change our lives.” A Ferengi sales pitch. Norvo steeled himself to say no to Yag.

“Did you know,” Yag said, “That we can send out gifts to close friends and family?” Norvo did. “Well, my cousin Prang is an art dealer--and don’t worry, I have a whole lot of leverage on the guy. If we sent out your paintings to him, he could sell them to interested buyers, with, of course, the information that these are painted by the promising young Norvo Tigan, tragically behind forcefields. I get latinum, your work gets exposure; by the time we’re both out, we’ll be in good shape. What do you say?”

“You want to sell my paintings of a prison? Who in the Alpha Quadrant would find that anything but tedious?”

“Scarcity and authenticity sell, my boy. 63rd rule of acquisition: Every commodity is an idea and every idea is a commodity.”

“This still sounds like a better deal for you than for me.”

“Norvo my boy, have you ever heard the story of Leadbelly? He was a musician on early 20th century Earth, and he was in prison for attempted murder. And this was an old Earth prison—no Federation rehabilitation, just hard labor. Not just that, it was one of the most brutal prisons in what was then the American South. You’d get punished with a lashing for things like ‘laziness’ or ‘impudence.’ Real pre-Federation hew-mon stuff. It was called Angola. Hardened criminals broke down weeping when they got sentenced to Angola. But as luck would have it, some folklorists who wanted to hear the music of that region came through—they’d heard about Leadbelly’s singing. So they recorded him. And do you know who heard that record? The governor of the state. He loved the music so much that he pardoned Leadbelly, who went on to become a legendary folksinger, and more importantly, a free man. Now. I ask again. Are you in?”

“This won’t work, but, hell, I’m in prison. Why not?”

And they sealed the deal with a handshake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is a tiny one. And Yag's version of the Leadbelly story isn't the accurate one. Just clarifying that I know that. Incidentally, it's a Leadbelly biography, The Life and Legend of Leadbelly that gives me the title of the story. It's worth a read.


	4. Welcome to My Life, Tattoo

Yag had sent out about a half-dozen paintings, and Max’s tattoo was finished. Why, this was the start of a proper career. Of course, this meant he’d have to face the tornado of friendliness that was Maximillian. _Get it together, Norvo_ , he told himself, _you can play his game._

Max was playing ping-pong, or a Bajoran variant, with Milar.

“Oh, hi, Norvo,” said Milar, “That’s a cute-looking targ you drew.” Norvo was sure this was mockery, but if it was, the Bajoran was very good at imitating earnestness. Just play along.

“Yeah, um, I was trying for sort of a ‘tasteful children’s book’ look. You know, it’s for Max.”

Max kept a poker face, mostly, but he twitched just a little.

Milar turned to Max, “The new kid likes you. That’s good. We could use a new friend.” Again, Milar really sounded like he meant these words at face value.

“Milar, can Norvo and I talk alone?” asked Max.

“Okay. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” And he headed off in the direction of the library.

Max took the drawing from Norvo’s hand. “Oh, kid, you got it right. That's Tomasso. Dad would really love to see this. I’ll get them to schedule a session with the gun for me and Ignacio.”

“Ignacio does tattoos?”

“Ignacio does everything. If you want to come with, it’d be good to have someone to talk to.”

“Doesn’t Ignacio sort of fill that niche?”

“Nah. He’s all jokes, no truth. Best secret-keeper I know, though. Nothing we say would leave the room.”

“You’re not worried about the guards hearing something?”

“Kid, I’m not planning a break. Anything personal is already on our psych profiles, remember? They have to know us to help us or some garbage like that.”

“The healing hands of captivity.”

“You’re not half-bad with words, kid.”

“I have a lot of time to brainstorm cynical phrases. Oh, one more thing?”

“Shoot.”

“You said your father _would_ like it. Not that he will.”

Max looked surprised. And then a little impressed. “Yeah. He, well, he passed away while I was locked up here. Had to attend the wake in the form of a viewscreen. It was always kind of me and him against the world, growing up. I had to do something.”

“I suppose so. For me it was my sister. So I understand.” 

That afternoon, he did decide to come along with Max and Ignacio. Either Max trusted Norvo or wanted it to seem like he trusted him, so Norvo would oblige. Hell, maybe the guy genuinely liked him.

Max lay face-down on the table, and Ignacio was buzzing away with the tattoo gun. With his shirt off, it was clear that Max was serious business. He was skinny, but all muscle, and he had more than a couple scars. Another reason to be on his good side.

“Hey, Norvo? I can tell you’re not quite comfortable when we eat with the guys. I know we come on strong.”

“Somewhat, yeah.”

“You don’t need to downplay it. Look, I’ve got an image to keep up. Ignacio knows it. Do you think Q’otok would take grief from a skinny little human if I wasn’t a ten-foot tall personality?”

“So, what, you’re always on?”

“Norvo, you do paint, I do people. It’s how I made my living. I am always on. It’s a dance, and when you’re a dancer, your body just learns to move differently.”

“You’re saying you were a con man?”

“Yeah, but that’s not what got me in here.”

“So what did?”

“My big dumb heart. I was seeing a girl, she had a boyfriend, and he had a sense of pride. The guy was honestly a real creep. He decides that rather than talk to her, he’ll just come and beat the hell out of me. ‘Cause I ‘stole her.’ You know, he was the kind of guy who thinks of girls as something to be kept protected from other guys. Anyway, he has fists, and I have a knife. I stab a little harder than I think, and he’s bleeding out. Next thing you know he’s hospitalized, and I’m behind forcefields for attempted murder. He's probably on to some other girlfriend he can be all possessive with. It’s sort of stupid macho thinking, but I’m still glad I knifed him. What did you do?”

“I took a rock to a woman’s head for the sake of people who didn’t even respect me. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Max smiled. “Look out, Ignacio. We got a real hard customer here.”

Ignacio smiled back. “I better watch my back.”

Max’s face got serious. “Look, Norvo. First rule of prison is that your guilt is between you and you. We all know everyone else did something. We are the great moral foul-ups of the Alpha Quadrant. Judging is for the people that sentenced us.”

There came a knock on the door.

It was a guard. “Norvo Tigan?”

Norvo waved hello.

“Your sister’s on the viewscreen. She wants to talk about a bartender named Quark. Apparently he’s bought one of your paintings.”

“That’s funny,” said Norvo, “I’ve never met the guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, yeah, here we go, actual major characters from the series!
> 
> Updates will slow down a hair, since we're getting a little plottier.


	5. Norvo Tigan, Boy Murderer!

Ezri didn’t look happy. “Quark got me a gift.”

“Is this bad? I don’t know anything except that he tends bar on your station.”

“Well, he’s been nursing a crush on me since I was Jadzia, but that’s not the point. According to him, he knew a Ferengi who was selling your paintings as, let me get this right, ‘originals from the inside, by Norvo Tigan, boy murderer.’ What is going on in there?”

“I’m… ‘boy murderer?’” Norvo went pale. He didn’t know what he expected from a Ferengi, but this was not what he wanted. He composed himself. “I’m going to have to talk to Yag. At least mother will be furious.”

“Back up. Who is Yag and how is your work being bought and sold out here? Is it even your work?”

“You really thing counterfeit Norvo Tigan paintings have any appeal? Yag’s my cellmate. He and I are sending my work out, and his cousin is selling it.”

Ezri raised an eybrow. “This was Yag’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Norvo didn’t have to take this from the one family member who actually cared about him. “It was, but I stand behind it. I don’t want to spend thirty years of my life painting for no one.” He almost believed that. “The murder angle…he didn’t say anything about that.”

“Norvo…”

“Zee, I don’t know what exactly you’re thinking, but you can’t keep me safe from out there. I’m here now. In prison. You can’t make that not be the case. I’ll handle Yag, all right? You just…you just tell me how things are on DS9. You know, like this is just a normal separation.”

“Okay. To be honest, it’s pretty lonely here. I’m missing Benjamin, and Julian’s missing Miles and Garak. We’ve been trying to make up the difference, but, you know, you can’t spend all your time with your lover and expect them to make up for your best friend.”

  
“Lover?”

Ezri shook her head. “I…forgot to tell you.”

“Well, I hear there’s been a war on. But, Julian? As in Bashir? The one you say Jadzia remembers as, and I quote, ‘a horny puppy dog?’”

“The very same. We actually have a lot in common. More than he and Jadzia did. We’re both walking disasters with terrible parents, for one.”

“Well, he is easy on the eyes.”

“Oh yes he is. And he’s sweet, and he’s…earnest about getting me into military history. It isn’t perfect, but that’s not all on him. The station’s a lonelier place these days. Everyone misses someone, not just us.” She paused, “Oh, I feel so selfish. Talking about how hard it is on the station, when you’re in prison.”

“No, it’s good to hear about normal problems. You seem more together. Not as in you have your act together, but, you know, joining-wise.”

“I still eat foods I hate and stand on my head for no reason and forget what my body looks like when I wake up from a dream. But I guess I accept that more. I was so busy trying to figure out what was me and not-me and I guess I…just don’t do that so much? Being joined is strange. I think people like to pretend it isn’t because it’s such an honor.”

“I always sort of suspected that, honestly. I’m glad to hear it wasn’t just me being closed-minded. Can I ask you something?”

“Is it the gory details of being joined?”

“No, it's not that. I just want you to call more often. I miss you, bad. And it helps to have a friend who isn’t speaking grifter every time he opens his mouth.”

“Yag doesn’t sound…look, I know you can take care of yourself, but he’s not a friend.”

“Zee, don’t be my big sister. I know Yag’s not a friend. I’m talking about Maximillian, king of the southwest corner meal table. He’s…he wants me around. And I think he’d be a good friend to have watching my back. I don’t know. No one’s been violent yet, but I get the sense that the place is like secondary school for the morally dubious.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You can’t imagine.”

The guard at the door gave him a wave.

“I think my time’s up.” He cursed under his breath. “There’s always something keeping us apart, isn’t there?”

“Take care of yourself, Norvo.”

“I’ll manage. Zee?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you like the painting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some trouble finding Ezri's voice here. Especially since we're dealing with a slightly more together Ezri than on the show.


	6. What Sells

On the walk back to the cell, he thought of a thousand ways he could confront Yag. A thousand displays of power and strength to scare him into never exploiting him. He did none of these things. He just turned to the Ferengi and said “Boy murderer, huh?”

Yag didn’t bat an eye. “What can I say? Prang decided to tell that part of the story, and I let him. You know, people were going to look up ‘Norvo Tigan,’ anyway. When somebody gets murdered, it does, after all, get written down.”

“I want people to buy my art because it’s art. Not because there’s blood on my hands.”

“Son, do you know how much art there is in the galaxy? Do you know how many really, really good artists get passed by for no reason other than that no one sold them hard enough. I’m selling you, Norvo. Do you believe in your art?”

“Well, sometimes. I want to, at least. You want me to say that I do so you can say what you wanted to say. Say it.”

“If you believe in it, then whatever Prang and I do to get it out there is in service of the thing you believe in. And besides. We can’t stop talking about the murders. That information is out there.”

“Yes, and I didn’t ask for that.”

“Look, we haven’t said anything that isn’t a matter of public record. I can keep it that way, I promise.”

“And I should believe that?”

“Norvo. Your work is good. I don’t have to lie to sell it. And the people don’t need any more than the word ‘murder’ to get their interest up. 82nd Rule of Acquisition: Never betray a client’s trust beyond what you need to make the sale.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

“Is the fact that I like you reassuring?”

“No.”

“Well, your choice. I stop selling your work and you spend the best years of your life and career painting for no one but that Maximillian and his little entourage, or you give the galaxy something they deserve to have.” Yag had on the grin of a man who knew he’d won.

“I already don’t like myself very much,” said Norvo, “Go ahead and make me into a lurid story. But you should know I don’t like you very much right now either.”

“All in service of your art, my boy. You know, it really is that good.”

“Yag?”

“What is it?”

“Don’t tell me how good it is. Don’t ever tell me how good it is again. Just shut up and sell it.”

Yag smiled. “Who am I to ignore my client’s wishes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, another shorty.


	7. Intentions

Norvo went off to stew in the library. There were all of two books of art—one of ancient Klingon sculpture, and one of 23rd century neo-pop-art. There were, however, a whole batch of earth detective novels. A nasty little joke by the warden, no doubt—“Crime doesn’t pay!”

Then there was a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then squirmed away. Surprise of surprises, it was Max. “Sorry, Norvo. Sometimes I forget about the no touching. That is something I should remember, right?”

“It’s only when I’m tense. So, you know, when I’m in prison.”

Max laughed.

“Yeah, I’m really funny. Bitter Norvo says clever things.”

Max’s face and voice softened. “You’re really not doing well, are you?”

“Look, is there something you needed? Because I’m really not in the mood for people to want things from me.”

“I was honestly just going to ask if you wanted some tea or something like that. They’ve been giving me extra replicator privileges—I know you haven’t gotten your own yet.”

“Max. I need to ask something.”

“Sure, kid.”

“Why are you my friend?”

Max’s eyes went wide.

“Why are you my friend? You ask me to draw you a tattoo and next thing I know I’m sitting with your little posse and hearing about your life, and generally just getting the full force of your big welcoming personality and I have no idea why. And I know you’re a con man, and I know you keep things from everyone but Ignacio, so why? What are you expecting from me?”

Max started laughing. Hysterically. It took him about a minute or two to compose himself. “Oh, Norvo. I’m not trying to con you, that’s not why I came on so strong. I was…honestly, I’m trying to get into your pants.”

Norvo blushed.

“Look, I don’t even know if you’re interested in men, but you’re talented and good-looking and when you smile, even if you don’t smile much, when you smile you just look so…decent. I’m sweet on you, kid.”

“That’s really what it is?”

“I don’t just stammer out this sort of stuff to get a fifth for zet-par.”

“Max, I’m sorry, I really am. Why can’t I be like my sister?”

“You’ll have to spell that out for me.”

“I mean, she thinks people are good. Let me tell you about what Ezri said, when she was leaving home to study psychology. What you have to understand is that my mother could make you feel small like no one could, and she used that to get us to do what she wanted. She was a genius at it: she wants me to stay with the family business, so she praises my art while letting me know how trivial it is to paint. She displays it so that it’s hers, because it doesn’t belong exhibited, it belongs in the family house. Because it’s not my achievement, it’s just a pretty thing made by the kid brother. And then when she’s royally cooked my head so that I can’t take a little criticism without wanting to fall into a bottomless pit, she makes it clear that I’m a sensitive boy who needs to be taken care of by his family. And that’s not even starting on what she did with Ezri.  
  “And you know what Ezri says? She says she wants to be a counselor because people don’t just start out like our mother. That something inside them gets twisted, that it’s not just through sheer bad nature that they turn cruel. And she says that she wants to make sure people don’t turn out that way. She wants to keep people good, because she thinks that how they are.  
  “And I just don’t. I’m not a saint like her. I’m the person who kills someone because something inside him got twisted, I’m the person who just thinks everyone’s getting ready to tear him down. Even the only person in here who wants him around at all.”

Max leaned in close, held his arm out. Norvo nodded, and Max put an arm around him. “You know what I think?” he said, “I think it doesn’t matter if your sister’s right. Some people are just ready to hurt you, and you have every reason to protect yourself from that.”

Norvo half-smiled. “So is this the part where you kiss me so I feel better about everything?”

“No, this is the part where, if you’re interested, I kiss you because I really want to kiss you.”

“Do it.”

And Max did.


	8. The Good Days

Max and Norvo were kissing fiercely when they heard footsteps. It was a guard, and Norvo didn’t pull away quickly enough to avoid being seen. The guard looked down at them and shook his head.

“You’re going to make us think there’s a fight going on, going at it like that. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Cells, or someplace we can watch you. This is what the sonic showers are for, inmates.”

Max smiled, “Glad to see there are some provisions for us lonely folk. Sonic showers! I’d never have thought of getting intimate in one of those! Truly, the Federation corrections program has everything.”

“Jacobson, if that weren’t the only way you knew how to communicate, I’d bother writing you up. Now get going, and take Tigan with you.”

As they walked off, Norvo elbowed Max. “So, you have a last name. I thought it’d be something more exciting.”

“My darkest secret. What say we meet the guys and I show you off, eh?”

“Look, I know that’s a joke, but I really don’t want to be someone’s trophy. That was mother’s way of doing things--look at my son’s creativity--so just take it easy.”

“Hands off again, huh? Consider the boundary set.”

“Not entirely, just...don’t do the thing where you lay claim to someone with public displays of affection. I...I haven’t really been with anyone. I kissed a boy at school once, but that’s really it. Look, if I’m too difficult, we can just drop the whole thing, okay?”

Max looked Norvo in the eye. “You say go slow, I go slow. I want to try this.”

“Me too.”

* * *

Norvo’s work changed over the next month or so. Yag told him so, told him it looked like the work of a man with something good in his life. He wasn’t sure people would think it was authentic, he had said. Norvo didn’t care.

Max was sweet. Smooth as too much butter, but sweet--a pastry you could get sick on. Milar was teaching him new card games, and Q’otok was scowling slightly less at him. Ignacio was the only one who knew for a fact that he and Max were...lovers? Were they lovers? They snuck into hidden places to be with each other, to kiss and to touch. That was what a lover was, wasn’t it?

Max had asked to pose nude, and Norvo warned him that it wouldn’t actually be very exciting for either party. But he did, and it wasn't. He had no fun sitting still to be sketched, and Norvo was too busy concentrating on his work to really enjoy the presence of a naked man. Then the guards walked in, and it was all a great big farce. Norvo made sure Max’s face was unrecognizable in the final product, and the Mystery Man paintings went out. Yag said they sold in a heartbeat, that that sort of thing was the kind of story that people bought. He said they’d be speculating for ages on the identity of this beloved man. Yag didn’t know it was Max. At least, Norvo hoped he didn’t

And one day, the warden wanted to speak with Norvo.

* * *

There was no way this would be good. Warden Ivanov was a fairly small man, middle-aged and graying. He wasn’t saying anything. Norvo took a seat in front of his desk. He still wasn’t saying anything.

“Sir?” said Norvo.

“I hear people on the outside like your paintings,” he said.

Norvo tried to keep a poker face. “You do?”

“Yes. I hear Yag’s cousin has been making quite a bit of latinum off of them. Since Yag’s not profiting directly, we can’t stop him sending them out, but I do have a question, seeing as they’re your work.”

“You do? I mean, what is it?”

“Do you really think your work gets treated fairly by private buyers latching on to the novelty of an imprisoned painter?”

“I’d like to think they appreciate the work on its own merits, sir.”

“I imagine some do.”

“So do you think I should stop letting Yag and Prang sell them?”

“I do, but there’s nothing I can do to make you. So the best I can do is make a counter-offer.”

Norvo had no idea what was coming next. He was pretty sure it’d somehow be a worse deal than Yag’s ‘Boy Murderer’ advertising. “What is it, sir?”

“I can get together an exhibition. It’ll promote Federation rehabilitation, and it’ll promote your art. In the spirit of honesty, the talk on the outside is that we’re letting a great artist languish--”

“I’ve never called myself great.”

“Let me finish. The talk on the outside is we’re letting you languish and squandering your best years. It’d be a mockery of equal justice if we let you out, but we’re facing a story where, no offense, a Ferengi profiteer is the big hero. And we both know Yag is no hero. So what do you say? Do you make art for Yag, or do you make art to be seen?”

“Sir, I’ve never made art for Yag.”

Ivanov leaned forward. “Then is it settled?”

Norvo didn’t think he could say no. He didn’t know if he wanted to, but he’d like to think he had the option. “Sir, I’d be honored.”

That was the sort of thing you said in this situation, wasn’t it?


	9. A Lull

Ambivalent or not, Norvo was telling Zee immediately. If nothing else, he’d be able to see her in person at the exhibition. There would be an hour’s wait for viewscreen use. At some point during that hour, Milar sat down beside him.

“Hi, Norvo.”

“Hi?” Norvo still couldn’t get a read on the guy.

“Calling someone?”

“That’s what this line is for, isn’t it?”

“I know. It’s good to see you doing better. You and Max seem happy together.”

Norvo was taken aback. “You know?”

“I can tell. People say I’m empathic,” He paused. “Not like an empath empathic. Just sensitive.”

“Milar?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you go by your given name? It’s awfully familiar for a Bajoran, isn’t it?”

“You want to change the subject. Sorry for saying anything.” He gestured at the guards. “All of them call us by surnames. I don’t want to be Inmate Tezel. And I feel like in here, I don’t know, we’re close.” He said the things he said so off-handedly. All in this casual, semi-cheerful tone. It seemed the opposite of calculated.

“Are we?”

“We have to be. Or I’d like it if we were. I don’t know. I like people. Who are you calling?”

“My sister. She’s the one half-decent person in the Tigan family.”

“It’s good to have those.”

“It is, isn’t it? Anyhow, who are you calling?”

Milar smiled. “I just saw you sitting here. Figured I’d sit down too. Can I ask about Max?”

“He looks good naked, if that’s what you want to know.”

“It wasn’t. I sort of figured he did. I guess. Naked people just look naked. Bodies are interesting, but...I don’t know. And if you don’t want to talk you don’t have to be evasive. You’re evasive a lot. You have that in common with Max. Maybe that makes you a good match.”

Norvo chuckled. “You talk like Ezri. I don’t know. I feel good about him. Like, here’s someone who turns on tons of charm just because he wants to be with me. Maybe he’s not perfect, maybe he’s just a big smoothie, but he wants me and that’s new, and that feels so good. Why am I telling you this?”

“People tell me things. I’m glad he makes you feel good. I don’t know about him, though. I can’t read him. But I can tell he likes you. I don’t know. He can be sweet to his friends. Maybe sweeter to you.”

“Hopefully.”

“I’m going to leave now. It was good talking to you.” And just like that, he got up and walked away.

* * *

Finally, it was Norvo’s turn on the viewscreen. He tried to put on his excited face for Zee.

She looked concerned. “Norvo, is everything all right in there?”

Norvo laughed. “About as all right as prison can get. I'm...I suppose I'm seeing someone."

Ezri smirked. “Seeing someone as in the man in the paintings? If those weren’t by my brother I’d put one up above my bed. They’re so sensual. You really understand what’s wonderful about bodies, and trust me on this, I’ve had plenty and seen more.”

“This does not sound like you. Although, the whole 'had plenty' is certainly not the sister I grew up with."

“Nor is the 'seen more,' as you well know.  Anyway, being joined really changes things. Torias and Curzon and Jadzia really...broke down some walls. Not to mention Audrid. I was not expecting...all that from her.” She fanned herself.

“Confident Ezri is going to take some getting used to.”

“Confident? All of this was like being rammed by a freighter. Everything I said about that painting just sort of fell out of my mouth. I don’t talk like that. I don’t know what I talk like anymore. I just let it happen. It’s like my brain is incontinent.” She blushed. “See, I don’t talk like that. It’s terrible.”

“Anyhow, I have some news.”

“All right?”

“Our warden is putting on an exhibition of my art. You and Julian should come. I’ll let you know the date as soon as they’ve decided.”

“Norvo, that’s wonderful! And I’ll finally get to wear that suit I had Garak make me!”

“A suit?”

“It felt right. You get Torias and Tobin and Curzon in your head, and what feels like you changes. There are men that are part of me now, Norvo. I think it’s why I decided to cut my hair, actually. I feel like a lot of different people and not all of them are women.”

“You’re very close to your past hosts. Have you considered that you’re _zhian’pallios_?” The term referred to joined trill that wholly transcended their unjoined identity. It was considered auspicious. “Also, am I using the right pronouns?”

“Using ‘she’...doesn’t feel wrong, I don't think. I’m not _not_ female. I need some time to sort that out, okay?" She paused. "More to the point, a lot of psychological studies suggest that the idea of _zhian’pallios_ is really reductive. Joining changes things, and surveys of joined Trill suggest all sorts of relationships to past hosts beyond ‘mundane’ and ‘ _zhian’pallios_.' Besides, it always only gets applied to those of us who don’t have conventional gender expressions. It’s like a bunch of old Trill from centuries ago decided your options were ‘boy,’ ‘girl,’ and ‘magic.’ Anyway, I honestly thought all the identity complication was just that I was unprepared. And maybe it was. It shouldn’t matter. I’ve got the Dax symbiont in me and I’m handling how I’m handling it.”

“I take it you’ve had to listen to a lot of nonsense?”

“Not so much to my face. But I get why Kira yells as much as she does.”

“Please tell me you’ve cursed Mother out.”

“I just don’t talk to her now. I don’t think there’s anything going to change her.”

“And Janel?”

“The same. It’s hard for me to believe in lost causes, but I can’t be the one to fix them.”

Norvo nodded. This was a good thing. Zee didn't need to beat her head against that wall. “Anyway, you said you’d seen my paintings.”

“As if I wouldn’t keep up with my little brother’s career. Now, whenever the exhibition is, I’ll _make_ Starfleet give me the time off. I’m glad you’re doing something with them other than giving them to...you know what? Forget that. That’s Audrid talking. They’re your paintings.”

“Thanks for that, Zee.”

“Anytime. See you at the exhibition.”

 

* * *

Max gave him some extra replicated cookies at lunch, as a congratulation. He then brandished a spoon at the rest of the table. “You’d better come to the exhibition. My boyfriend’s a very talented man.”

He’d said it. To them. He’d said it to them.

Q’otok smiled. “You have ceased your cowardice, Maximillain! I approve.”

“Wait, you knew? I was certain that I had the discretion of a Tal’Shiar agent. Am I truly a mere man?”

“We think it’s sweet,” said Milar.

Q’otok shook his head, “It is glorious. To find love in captivity is an act of defiance. That is more than ‘sweet.’”

“You’re a real inspiration there, sweet pants,” said Max. Now, let’s play some cards. I’ve got my eye on Ignacio’s dessert.”

He did not win Ignacio’s dessert. In fact, he lost half his meal. And that was that. Max’s little crew knew, and they were happy for them.

“So,” said Norvo, “You want some alone time with your _boyfriend_?”

“Reference books in the library?”

“That seems to be our spot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff with Ezri is stuff I've had as headcanon for a while now. I think I'd be out of my depth writing a whole fic about it, but I wanted to include it somehow.


	10. Wonderful News!

Yag grabbed Norvo by the shoulders. “This is wonderful news! Wonderful!”

Norvo squirmed away. “You think so?”

Yag was practically punching the air, the way he was gesticulating. “It’s the next step in the legend of the jailed genius: his warden acknowledges his brilliance. It’s the big redemption. Everyone in the world that drove him to murder is wrong; all the cruelties heaped upon this decent man, he has risen above. 156th Rule of Acquisition: there’s no product like redemption.”

“Are you making these rules up?”

“Nonsense, my boy. I was quite the scholar in my youth. Knew all the rules and a few of the scholarly commentaries. You know the great paradox of the 34th and 35th, right? Of course you don’t. Two consecutive rules: Peace is good for business, war is good for business. Well, if you look at the inherently fluid nature of the Great Material Continuum, it seems they don’t contradict at all, but if you consider--”

Norvo held up his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Yag. You have to understand what this means. I’m not going to be giving you very many paintings to sell. I’m saving them for the gallery.”

“I know! It’s perfect. The paintings go dry. Or, mostly dry. And then word trickles out: he’s saving them! Come see them! Come meet the man! And of course there’s only so much room in the prison, so not everyone can come. And the paintings you display there, oh, I’ll be able to mark them up so high, because I’m selling the idea of not having missed out at all. Is any of this not going over your head, boy? This is important commercial theory here, real sophisticated stuff. I swear, if you Federation types weren’t so prejudiced, I’d be teaching a class. For a fee, of course.”

“You’re especially excited today. Has someone smuggled in some of your old merchandise?”

“I am a genius is what I am! Which is to say you’re a genius! All I had dreamed of hinged on your being the real deal. And you are. You magnificent artist! I could kiss you!”

“Please don’t. And am I a magnificent artist, or a good story? You said yourself that ideas are commodities.”

“You’re a smart one, you are. You’re both. Artist and story. You have to be. No one got anywhere overestimating the credulity of the market, despite what thinkers like Pak or Burng would say. If it wasn’t truly an injustice that your art was kept in prison, with you, you’d be at best a novelty, a lesser piece of outsider art. But as it is, why, Norvo Tigan will be a legend. A genuine maligned talent. Every young person who suspects life the Federation may be less than perfect will look to your struggle. People will pick up brushes because of you.”

“That’s...sure. I’ll be a legend.”

“Hey, I make my profit whether you believe it or not, kid. An exhibition! Isn’t that something?”

Norvo supposed it was.

* * *

“So,” said Norvo to the table, “even my ‘illustrious’ patron wants to go through with it.

This elicited an ‘Aww’ from Milar.

Ignacio looked skeptical. “You know he's a Ferengi, right? He isn’t doing this out of the kindness of his heart.”

“Oh, you should have heard the ranting about how it’d drive up his profits. He thinks there’s going to be a legend around me. He’s trying to sell one of us. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

“You know,” said Max, “I do believe that spending time with me has somewhat improved your confidence.”

“Are you kidding? Once the thrill of having a gallery opening fades, and the fear of actually having to present my work to people, in person, hits, believe me, I’ll be the same flinchy sad-sack you somehow fell for.”

Q’otok gave him an appraising glance. “You should feast upon your joy and grow fat on it. For now, you are triumphant.”

“Smart man,” said Max.

After the meal was over, Max pulled him aside. “We need to talk.”

“First off, those are terrifying words. And second, you know we have to return to our cells right now.”

“Then I’ll talk to you when we next get some free time. I’m not going to be awful and tell you now.”

“Max, don’t mess with my head. Tell me what?”

“I...you really need to know now?”

“Yes.”

“I’m getting out, Norvo. Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yag is so much fun to write.


	11. Boy Trouble

So, then, a couple hours to stew. So be it. Norvo sort of hated the idea that he was just destined for unhappiness--people _did_ bad things to him, they didn’t just happen. But it seemed like the exact cruel twist of fate, at the exact right time, for that sort of thought to seem warranted. He wished they let him drink in here.

He painted. The painting was garbage. Yag had nice things to say about it. And they let him out of the cell for dinner.

He and Max ate alone. They’d have taken their meals someplace more private, if they were allowed, but as it was, this was a talk they’d have in the cafeteria.

“How soon is soon, Max?” he asked.

“One and a half, two months. Whenever my coursework is done and the paperwork is filed.”

“Coursework?”

“Yeah. The stuff I did as a con man makes me a natural choice for investigating fraud. I’m going to be working the other side of the law soon. They’ll be keeping me on low-stakes cases, seeing as I was a crook. But they’re trying to give me as much training on the inside as they can.”

“That’s…” Norvo sighed, “That’s good news for you.”

“I know! Maximillian Jacobson, honest citizen! Less adventure, but still. Pretty damn good.”

“But I’ll still be here.”

“But you’ll still be here. That’s kind of the problem.”

“Did you know?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you know?” Norvo’s voice was cracking. “When we kissed. When you were trying to sleep with me. Did you know?”

“I did. Look, I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think what?”

“That I’d fall for you, you know? That it’d be anything.”

“That _you’d_ fall for _me_? What about the kid who’s barely been kissed? Whose mother found him tolerable at best? What did you think was going on in my head?”

Max was, for the first time, without words.

“Look, you want to know the worst part? I still want to do this. I am just that starved for affection. Norvo Tigan, the damaged, unloved young pretty boy, clings to the rakish older man who does him wrong. I’m a nasty little cliche, aren’t I?”

“Norvo, I can just disappear, okay? I can be an ugly little memory, a cautionary tale. Your first real dirtbag of an ex-lover.”

Norvo laughed bitterly. “You really don’t get it, do you? You have me hooked. It’s going to tear me open when you leave, but I have to see this through to the end.”

Max looked puzzled, and a little hurt. Norvo almost felt good about that. “Norvo, I’m not an honest man. You knew that from the start. Maybe you should have trusted your instincts, huh?”

“That’s a low thing to say, Max. Can’t you just kiss me instead of talking?”

Max hung his head. “Later, Norvo. Later, okay.”

And he walked out.

* * *  
What a pathetic sight Norvo must have been, tears running down his face as he avoided eye contact. When he got back, he punched a hole through the canvas because why not be the big angry man, why not give more proof that he could be violent?

“Boy trouble?” said Yag.

“What the hell would you know about that?”

“You’re a handsome young man, Norvo. What else could it be?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“No, I’m not. But I’ll drop the pretense. You and Max are an open secret here, and his reputation isn’t great. I saw this coming.”

“What, kind old Uncle Yag is here to console me?”

“Oh, Prickly Norvo showed up today? Look. Just keep painting. It’s who you are. Not Max’s lover, an artist. Love fades, art doesn’t”

“Well, it’s certainly profitable for you if that’s who I am.”

Yag smiled. “Clever boy. Latinum outlasts love as well, if you hoard it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, I'm finally back. I'm sure y'all are laughing at the idea that a one-month hiatus is all that much.
> 
> Anyway, can I just say that it's a real challenge to get the dialogue feeling like Trek in this? I still don't know if I'm doing it right. Not fishing for compliments, just saying.


	12. Healthy's the Worst

Milar was the first to ask if he wanted to talk.  He guessed he did.

“You know, the stupid part is he’s still the same Max, and that same Max is still somebody I want to be with.”

Milar half-smiled. “It’s not stupid.  It’s true.”

Norvo chuckled.  “Oh, it’s pretty stupid. Is he still going on about what a bad man he is?”

“I suppose.  Not in the charming way like usual.”

“It’s selfish of him.  Look at me!  I break hearts!”

“It’s what he does.”

“That doesn’t make it alright.”

“No.”

Milar went to put his arm around Norvo’s shoulder.  Norvo pulled away.

“Sorry,” said Milar, almost immediately.

“Yeah, it’s...I don’t do that.  Not unless you’re serious.”

“I’m plenty serious.  Just, not in a Max way.”

Norvo pulled away.  “Sorry.  Look, forget it, alright.  Max is who he is.  And I’ve got to deal with all of that, I guess.  Let’s just shut up about this.  What’s going on with you?”

“I got some Delavian chocolates from my uncle today.  I slept a lot.  I listened to Max talk about you.  I listened to you talk about Max.”

“Informative.”

“Well, ‘nothing’ wouldn’t be accurate, would it?”

“You are either the most straightforward man in the quadrant or a gigantic joker.”

“That’s true.  Want a piece of chocolate?”

“Later.  How the hell did a nice guy like you get in here, anyhow”

“Oh, same as you.  I did something really bad.”

They ate together that evening.  Away from Ignacio and Max and Q’otok.  Milar said Max would get it.  Norvo kept looking over.  Max was standing on chairs and laughing and just being Max.  Norvo suspected it didn’t hurt him at all.  He decided to avoid him.  Milar would always eat with him.  It was simple.  No fire.  No hunger.  Nothing stupid.  Just two inmates, sharing something from an under-maintained replicator.

 

*****

 

Ezri had come for an in-person visit.  They’d talked about Max remotely.  So this was something besides lifetimes’ worth of romantic advice.

He knew their conversation was being monitored.  He supposed all the transmissions were, too, but with the camera in the room, there to be looked at, it was more intrusive somehow.

The first thing she said was “Still haven’t talked to him, I take it?”

“Probably never.”

“That won’t work.”

“I know.  This isn’t what you’re here for, is it?”

“Look, I know you well enough to know this isn’t you, but someone’s written about our family.  ‘The Tragedy of the Tigans.’  It’s...people are reading it.  There’s things that only you and I know in there.  Right alongside big dramatic lies.”

“Well, dear me, it appears as though I’m being exploited.”

“You’re doing the thing you do.”

“That I am.”

“I’m not going to tell you this is serious because I know you well enough to know you’re processing it.  But do you know who’d know these things?”

“Well, barring a particularly enterprising guard?  Just Max.”  It took him a second to realize just what this meant.  His face went red, and he began to cry or scream or something.  Ezri pulled him toward her.  He was crying on her shoulder now.  He did this once when they were little.  Janel laughed at him.  He didn’t do it again.

Finally, he stopped.  “Sorry.  Ever since I quit drinking I can’t quite muster the bitter irony I used to.”

“That’s probably healthy.”

“Healthy’s the worst.”

“Norvo?”

“I’m so sorry.  You deserved better.  Just...don’t do anything that gets years added to your sentence, OK?”

“I don’t imagine I’d have the guts.”

“Norvo, don’t.”

“Sorry, Zee.  It’s just what I do.”

They just sat for a while.  He curled against her, something he hadn’t done since he was small.  The guards let him.  He supposed they could tell.


	13. A Little Espionage Between Friends

“I knew it!”  Yag seemed almost proud.  “Prang was holding out on us.  He’s--”

“If the next thing out of your mouth is a rule of acquisition, I may just punch your teeth in.”

“Heathen.”  Yag smiled.

“Why are you so damn casual?”

“Well, this is pretty mild on Ferenginar--a little espionage between friends, a little--”

“It’s my life!  It’s...it’s my lover.  Ex-lover.  Liar.  Bastard.”

“Well, remember what I said about love and latinum, son.”

“I don’t want latinum, Yag!” Tears were welling in Norvo’s eyes.  “I want him.  I want it to have been real.  I want to know he wasn’t spying for Prang when he started.  Or I want to know he was always in it for the latinum and that it’s okay to hate him.”

“Well, hatred is comforting.  Probably just as useless as love when it comes to business, but I’ve indulged in my day.”

“Shut up, Yag.”

“Not in my nature, my boy.”

Norvo would go for a walk if he could.  He’d drink if he could.  Hell, he’d beat the hell out of Max if he could.  He was a killer, right?  A cracked mind?  A...what was it Prang’s book had said?  ‘The product of cruelty?’

He supposed he was glad he didn’t feel hollow.  Ezri would call that progress.  He painted.  It kept his arms moving, which mattered.  He painted sloppy.  Yag thought it came out well.  Norvo couldn’t argue.  _ Betrayal #1 _ , the new work by the tragic damaged boy killer.  Couldn’t you just see the torment on the canvas?

He set the canvas aside and curled up on his bed.  He had felt like vomiting and he felt like vomiting again.  He supposed you couldn’t really trust a con man to be anything but, especially when he admitted it to your face.  Still, the tenderness between them had felt real.  He was the first man to touch Norvo since mother had caught him and Kanzin from school being ‘entirely too young for that.’  And he touched like an honest man.

“You Federation types really don’t take betrayal well, do you?” asked Yag

“We don’t, no.  Especially not from, well, you know.”

“On Ferenginar we don’t really have that sort of romance.  Even when it’s between males, we keep it sensible.  Businesslike.  Intimacy exchanged for intimacy.  No written contract, but we know it’s a matter of getting what we want out of the other person.”

“It’s not like that with us, Yag.

“That’s nonsense, Norvo.  You might want something complex, but it’s still a matter of want.”

Norvo supposed so.  Norvo wanted a thousand and one things from Max.  But mostly he wanted to know.  Did Max at least feel bad?  Did he ever doubt himself, when he was feeding information to Prang?

He thought Max really did love him.  In which case, so much for love.


	14. Might

Milar ate just with him now.  Norvo would catch Max looking over at them.  Let him.

He learned things about Milar--he’d actually spent time on Terok Nor during the occupation, and spent a little time in a prison camp following that.  He showed off some scars to Norvo.  He actually looked pretty good without a shirt, though Norvo would never tell him that.  And then the subject came up of what he had done.

“I did science.”

“Illegal, I assume?”

“Sort of.  Do you remember when the Maquis poisoned the atmosphere of Cardassian colonies, a few years ago?”

“I was busy missing my sister and hating myself.  I’m not exactly a politically-minded man, Milar.”

“Well, I helped cook up the nerve agent for Eddington--the, uh, the man in charge.”

So there it was.  Tezel Milar, the mildest inmate in New Zealand, was a Maquis terrorist.  Whatever exactly that meant, now that Cardassia was reforming and rebuilding.

“I told you what I did was bad.”

“Well, it’s at least a bit more abstract than bashing a widow’s head in and dumping her body in a river.”

“It’s okay.  I don’t forgive myself either.”

Norvo looked across the table to Max.  He was standing on the table, gesticulating.  He seemed to have forgiven himself just fine.  “Would you look at that?”  Norvo was scowling.

“He’s like that,” said Milar.

“I know, Milar, I’ve seen the guy naked.

“He might be real torn up right now.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I said ‘might,’ Norvo.  He might not have ever loved you.  But he talked to me like he did.”

“Milar, you’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help.”  Milar shrugged.  “He hurt you.  Pretty much all there is to it, from where you stand.  And that’s all right.  You got hurt, you get to be upset.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that, Milar.”

“You might have.”  


Norvo tossed a pea at the Bajoran’s head.  This was so much easier than love.


	15. The Things A Person Is Supposed to Say

On the day he was to leave, Max came to say goodbye.

“Hey, lover,” he said. Same old cockeyed grin.

“Max.”

“Look. I never was good to you. I know that. But I did fall for you.”

“Before, or after?”

“First time I spoke to you, Norvo. You deserve better than me.”

Norvo knew it was a line. Norvo knew all of this was Max saying the apologetic things a person is supposed to say. “You’re right. I do.”

Max laughed. And Norvo melted. Norvo kind of hated that. Didn’t he have any dignity? Any self-respect?

Norvo looked at his shoes. “You know, when it was good. I miss that. I really miss the hell out of that.”

“Just think, on the outside, we could have been real.” Max extended a hand.

Norvo took it. “A sad little rich boy and a scruffy reprobate, huh?”

“Like a holonovel.”

“Yeah.” And they kissed. Hard. Like they meant it. Norvo pulled away, and Max had tears in his eyes. They didn’t look fake.

“Do you want me at the exhibition? I’d come, Norvo, I’d come in a second.”

“I never want to see you again, Max.”

“Sure you do.”

“That’s the problem.” They kissed again. And Max was right. They could have been real. Kissing made it all fade, and what was left was the love that fueled whatever it was they had, deception or no. Norvo couldn’t bear it.

“Max,” he said, “Go. Go before I want to forgive you.”

Max’s face was uncomprehending. 

“Norvo, I’m sorry. I thought no one would get hurt. I’ll miss you bad, kid.”

Norvo walked away. He could hear Max shouting for him to wait. He kept going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so actually plotting out the next few scenes is taking for fucking ever, but here's what was going to be half a chapter.


End file.
